


Project Atlantis

by rageprufrock



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regrettable SGA/Project Runway crack snapshot.  Nobody knows why I do these things to myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Project Atlantis

"Tell us about the fight."

Rodney glares. "It wasn't really a fight."

The producer cocks his brow from his spot behind the camera. The guy on the mike snaps his gum disinterestedly and scratches his stomach a little. Rodney can't believe he's at the mercy of these fuckers for another month.

"You have a black eye," the producer—David? Ron? Some porno name, anyway—says.

Rodney claps his hand over his face. "Because Teyla's a model-stealing bitch on wheels."

"I thought you were friends," the producer says, egging him on.

"Look," Rodney snaps, "I know you're just trying to solicit the Bravo TV equivalent of a gay porn money shot line about how much I secretly hate Teyla and how she's an anal wart of whatever—but the point is that we had a reasonable disagreement about her stealing my model that ended pretty poorly when I—"

"Actually, I don't know how stolen John feels," the producer tells him. "Last I saw, he was braiding her hair."

"—God, that monstrous slut!"

\-----

Rodney hasn't had a full night's sleep since he showed up in New York at Atlantis, and he rightfully hates almost every single person on the show, but being a disgraced fashion designer doesn't give him a whole lot of options. The point is, he hadn't anticipated John out there on the runway that very first challenge, looking laconic and fucked-out and more disheveled than any professional model had the right to look. Oh, and he was like, 12 and a half. Literally.

"You have so much of your life ahead of you," Rodney had lectured him, that first challenge when John had been the last—and most hungover-looking model—on the runway and Rodney of course got stuck with him. "You're what—three? Four? Why do you have bite marks on your ass?"

"It was $8 pitcher night," John told him easily, and shimmied his nonexistent hips. "And I'm 20, thanks."

"That's disgusting," Rodney had sneered. "I can only being to imagine this life of wretched debauchery that you lead, all filth and anonymous sex and getting bite marks on your ass when I'm going to clothe you in fucking amazing pants for a runway show."

"This would all be having more of an impact on me if you weren't like, stroking my thighs as you were saying it," John told him truthfully, and Rodney conceded the point and went back to measuring John's inseam in sullen silence.

\-----

"Okay, fine, you're getting what you wanted: I'll tell you about the fight."

"Fantastic," the producer said, sounding marginally bored. Rodney wondered if Kavanagh had started shit again, since the only time anybody seemed bored about Rodney's drama, Kavanagh must have started threatening to hang himself with leftover gold braid from the Liberace challenge again.

"Well, to begin, you have to understand that John and I have a very special bond," Rodney said. "He's a slutty, stereotypical model and I make very bad and not-all-that-earnest passes at him and make him wear shit that makes him look legitimate. It's a delicate balance."

\-----

Halfway through trying to tailor Rodney's genius construction tarp slacks to John's nonexistent if teeth-mark-ridden ass, Rodney had suffered a moment of epiphany, looking up at John garbed only in his innate harlotry, and the finished canvas and wallpaper shirt he'd made.

"Oh, my God, you're perfect," Rodney had sighed in horror.

John grinned down at him and canted his hips a little more. "I know," he said.

"You know," Rodney mocked, going back to pinning up the indelicate cloth of the construction tarp. John was wearing a pair of black boxer briefs under there and Rodney knew it had to be uncomfortable: part pincushion part tag on the back of a brand new shirt, but mostly, Rodney was aware of the fact that John's package was right in front of his face, and it seemed to be asking Rodney to sign for it.

The other models with the other designers were all engaged in lighthearted laughter, the eternal confluence of gay men and women and metrosexuals celebrated in pop music and TAB the globe over, while John leaned sexily and flipped through a copy of the Economist while Rodney hemmed some pants. Life wasn't fair, Rodney thought morosely, staring at John's ass and the perfect half moon of bite marks visible over the low-hipped waist of John's underpants.

"Do you even know how to read?" Rodney asked finally in frustration.

John only winked and said, "Oh, yeah. Got lots of practice, you know, being shoved face down into my photobook and getting banged over the side of a table in open calls and stuff."

Rodney said, "God," in a strained voice and reminded himself not to use words like "sexual" and "frustration" in the runway explanation later that day.


End file.
